It must be love
Romance isn’t dead. On the contrary, it’s alive and kicking up its heels, ballet flats, gumboots and flippers in a bookshop near you
‘“My prince!” she swooned, and fell into his arms.’ In the hierarchy of literature, from the elevated to the despised, romance languishes near the bottom. Long seen as a repository of heaving bosoms and square-jawed heroes, where a wedding ring solves all life’s problems, its reputation as great fiction is as tarnished as a jilted bride.
And yet, despite that, people keep reading it. Romance novels represent 23 per cent of all book sales in the US, and that figure shows no sign of decreasing – if anything, sales of the genre are growing. It kicks into the long grass its old image as trashy literature for bored housewives. A new generation of readers – and writers – are reclaiming romance for the joyful, hopeful, optimistic experience it is. And in a world of persistent bad news, escapism like this can be just the salve that’s needed.